Witch Hunter (3 page)

made a mistake, and it takes every bit of self-control I have

to keep still.

Finally, he stops. In the second it takes him to loosen his

grip around my throat, I plunge my hand into the sack of

salt on my belt, snatch a handful, and fling it in his face.

An unearthly shriek fills the room as the salt melts what’s

left of his skin and penetrates his skull, his eyes, his brain,

dissolving it into a grey sticky mass. Warm, putrid chunks

of flesh drip onto my face and hair; an eyeball unravels from

its socket and dangles in front of me like a viscous ball of

twine. Stifling a gag, I roll to the side, snatch my sword off

the floor, and swing. The blade cuts neatly through the

ghoul’s neck, and in a swirl of hot air and another ear-

splitting shriek, he disappears.

The last necromancer pauses at the sound, the objects he

has spinning around the room dropping unceremoniously

to the floor. Caleb doesn’t hesitate. He grabs him by the

back of the head and slams it into his knee, then punches

him in the face so hard the necromancer staggers backwards

and falls into the fire. Before he can move, Caleb drops

beside him and slaps bindings around his wrists.

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He pauses there for a moment, head down, breathing

hard. His sweaty blond hair is plastered across his forehead,

his face smeared with blood. I’m still sprawled on the

floor, my hands and clothes covered in dirt and rot and

God knows what else. Finally, he lifts his head and looks

at me.

And we both start laughing.

Caleb steps outside and whistles for the guards. They storm

into the house, clad in their black-and-red uniforms, the

king’s coat of arms emblazoned across the front and a red

rose, the flower of his house, embroidered on the sleeve.

One by one they haul the necromancers outside, toss them

into the waiting hurdle, and chain them in. When they get

to the last one, a look of dismay crosses their faces.

‘He’s dead,’ one says to Caleb.

Dead? That can’t be right. But when I look over at the

necromancer I flung my dagger at, I see him lying faceup,

eyes open to the sky, the knife I’d meant for his leg impaled

in his gut.

Damnation.

I shoot a horrified glance at Caleb, but he ignores me

and begins speaking.

‘Yes, he’s dead,’ he replies calmly. ‘It’s unfortunate, of

course, but we got lucky.’

‘Lucky?’ the guard says. ‘How d’you mean?’

‘Lucky that only one of them died,’ Caleb continues

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smoothly. ‘They tried to kill each other the moment we

arrived. I suppose they had some sort of pact. You know

how necromancers are. Obsessed with death.’ He shrugs.

‘We spent half the arrest trying to keep them off one

another. I mean, look at this place. And look at poor

Elizabeth. She’s a mess.’

The guards look from Caleb to me, as if they had

forgotten I was there.

‘I’ll have to report this to Lord Blackwell,’ one of the

guards says. ‘I can’t very well deliver a dead prisoner.’

‘Certainly,’ Caleb says. ‘In fact, I’m headed back to

Ravenscourt myself. Why don’t I accompany you? Less

paperwork for us both if we go together, don’t you think?’

‘Paperwork?’ The guard shifts uncomfortably. ‘On

a Saturday?’

‘Of course. After we deliver the report in person, we’ll

have to write it all up. Shouldn’t take too long, a couple

of hours at most. Shall we?’ Caleb walks to the door and

holds it open.

The guards look at each other and begin speaking

in whispers.

‘Maybe it can wait. Not as if he’s going anywhere—’

‘But what about the body? Someone’s bound to notice if

he’s not moving—’

Caleb smiles. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. No one

pays much attention to prisoners once they’re inside. And

you’re right, he won’t be going anywhere. After all, no

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one gets out of Fleet. Unless it’s to the stakes.’

The guards laugh, and Caleb laughs with them. But I feel

a sudden shiver. I stuff my hand into the pocket of my

cloak, clenching it into a fist.

Caleb escorts them outside, watches as they mount their

horses. After a minute they shake hands and the guards ride

away, the hurdles’ heavy wooden frames dragging divots

through the mud, the thud of the horses’ hooves the only

sound in the still-empty alley.

He comes back into the house, his expression once again

unreadable. I watch as he begins righting the furniture,

retrieving our weapons. I know he’s angry I killed that

necromancer – he’s got to be. It was stupid and it was

careless; it was a mistake after he warned me not to make

one. Worse still, I have no excuse. At least not one I can

give him. Any minute he’ll start yelling. I can’t stop him,

but maybe I can soften the blow.

‘Okay, I’ll admit it. It wasn’t my best work,’ I say. ‘But

look at it this way: at least you don’t have to pay me the two

sovereigns now. I’ll settle for just the one.’

He sets down the chair he’s holding with a thud and

rounds on me.

‘What the hell happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I guess I made a mistake.’

Caleb frowns. ‘I warned you about that.’

‘I know. And I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.’

He peers closely at me, his eyes searching mine as if he

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might find a better explanation there. Then he shakes

his head.

‘You know that’s not good enough. If anyone asks

what happened today, you’ll need to tell them the same

story I told the guards.’

‘I know,’ I repeat.

‘It’s important,’ he continues. ‘If anyone finds out, it’ll

get back to Blackwell. You know what’ll happen if it does.’

I do. He’ll call me into his chambers, stare at me

with eyes as sharp and black and cunning as a crow’s,

and demand to know what happened. Not just what

happened here, today. He’ll demand to know everything.

The things I’ve done, the people I’ve seen, the places I’ve

gone. He’ll demand to know how I lost focus. He’ll wear

me down with his questioning until I confess it all and he

knows everything.

And he can’t know everything. No one can. Not

even Caleb.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Caleb says. ‘The fire will be over by

now, and we can’t be seen.’

He takes my arm and leads me out the door and into the

streets. We wind through them the same way we came until

we reach Westcheap, the wide, paved road that leads from

Tyburn all the way to Ravenscourt Palace.

We’re blocks away, but I can still see the mob stretching

from the gates into the surrounding streets. Throngs of

men – women, too – all of them shouting and chanting,

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denouncing the king, his advisors, even the queen for their

unrelenting policy against magic.

‘It’s getting worse,’ Caleb says.

I nod. Burnings have never been popular, but they’ve

never been protested before. Not like this. It used to be if

you disagreed with the king’s policy, you did it quietly:

handed out pamphlets in the street, whispered your

complaints over drinks at the tavern. It seems impossible

that the entire city would now gather in front of the palace

gates, armed with sticks and rocks and…

Sledgehammers?

‘What are they doing?’ I can just make out a group of

men, hammers held high, spread out along a stretch of gate

where twelve stone slabs hang: the Twelve Tablets of Anglia.

The Twelve Tablets are the laws of the kingdom, etched

into stone and posted along the gates of Ravenscourt.

Each tablet details a different law: property, crime,

inheritance, and so on. After Blackwell became Inquisitor,

he added the Thirteenth Tablet. It listed the laws against

witchcraft and the penalties for practising it. It gave rise to

witch hunters, to pyres, to the burnings being protested

today. It disappeared two years ago – vandals, probably. But

even though it’s gone, the laws, of course, remain.

Destroying the other twelve tablets won’t bring about

change. They have nothing to do with witchcraft; it wouldn’t

matter even if they did. But the men continue to pound

away, though they haven’t made a dent. No wonder. The

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tablets are huge: six feet high and at least a foot thick,

solid stone.

Caleb shakes his head. ‘He’s completely lost control,’

he mutters.

‘Who?’ I say.

‘Who do you think? King Malcolm, of course.’

My eyes go wide. This makes the third time in as many

months Caleb’s spoken against the king. He’s never done

that before.

‘He’s doing the best he can, I’m sure.’

Caleb tsks. ‘Hard to put down protests or stomp out

rebellions when you’re too busy hunting or gambling or

spending time with women who aren’t your wife.’

I gasp and feel my cheeks redden. ‘That’s treason.’

He shrugs. ‘Maybe. But you know it’s true.’

I don’t reply.

‘Malcolm’s got to get rid of him,’ Caleb continues. ‘Or

we do. It’s the only thing that will end these rebellions.’

Him is Nicholas Perevil, a wizard and the leader of

the Reformists. That’s what those who support magic

call themselves. Not all Reformists are wizards, but all

Reformists seek the same end: to reform the antimagic laws,

to abolish the Thirteenth Tablet, to stop the burnings.

Nicholas Perevil should have been just another wizard

we hunted and captured and tied to the stake. But before

Malcolm became king, his father turned to Nicholas for

help. Invited him to court, sought his advice, tried to find a

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way for Reformists and Persecutors – what Reformists call

those who oppose magic – to coexist peacefully.

He soon became the most powerful wizard in Anglia.

Not just in his magical ability, but also in his influence. He

had the ear of the king; he was changing the policy of

Anglia. He was appointed to the king’s council and even

brought in his own men. It was unthinkable, his opposers

said. Impossible.

They were right.

And five years later they were dead, along with half

of Anglia. Killed by a plague Nicholas started, a plot

designed to kill his enemies, weaken the country, and

put him on the throne, all in one convenient curse. But

Nicholas hadn’t planned on Malcolm’s surviving, on

Blackwell’s surviving.

And he hadn’t planned on us.

‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But it’s hard to catch someone you

can’t find.’

‘Then maybe we should try a little harder.’ Caleb glances

down at his rough wool tunic and grimaces. ‘I didn’t go

through a year of training to dress like some broken-down

squire. You can’t be happy about wearing that thing, either.’

He points to my ugly brown maid’s dress.

After the rebellions started, witch hunters became

Reformist targets. It’s why Blackwell ordered us to stop

wearing our uniforms, to lie about our identity, why he sent

us to live at Ravenscourt to blend in with the rest of the

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king’s servants. And it’s why I lost focus today, why I made

a mistake. Because if I’d never come back to Ravenscourt…

I squeeze my hand into my pocket again.

We turn off Westcheap onto Kingshead Alley, a dark,

dank street filled with tiny shops, their shutters closed

and doors shut tight. At the very end is a battered wooden

door, above it a green wooden plaque that reads THE

WORLD’S END in gold block lettering. Caleb pushes it open.

Inside, it’s packed with people: pirates and thieves,

drunks and vagrants. Most of them are already drunk, even

though it’s not much past noon. There’s a loud card game

in one corner, a fight breaking out in another. A trio of

musicians cowers between them, trying in vain to play

above the brawl and the crowd that cheers every time

someone gets punched.

We spy Joe, the old, white-haired owner, pulling drinks

behind the bar, and we head straight for him. As soon as we

walk up, he slides each of us a foaming glass of ale and

watches as we take a cautious sip.

‘Well?’ He folds his arms across his chest.

Caleb chokes, sputtering ale all over the counter.

‘Don’t mind him.’ I jab my elbow into Caleb’s side.

‘It’s very nice.’